


a dilettante sort of way

by couldaughter



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Lord Peter Wimsey - Dorothy L. Sayers
Genre: Developing Friendships, Gen, Incunabala, apocrypha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-16 02:33:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19308859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/couldaughter/pseuds/couldaughter
Summary: For all that it retained some prestige as one of the oldest continually operating bookshops in London, A.Z. Fell & Co had an abysmal reputation among the social circles Lord Peter Wimsey had inveigled himself into following the War - being made up primarily of self-proclaimed intellectuals, artistes, and independently wealthy collectors of incunabala, this was perhaps not entirely surprising. Familiarity breeds contempt, or so Peter had heard.“Awful atmosphere,” Marjorie had offered over tea - a fine lapsang souchong as it happened - when Peter was last in Bloomsbury. “Felt as if a leak was about to erupt at any moment. I wouldn’t be surprised if the owner doesn’t keep a tiger caged up somewhere ready to unleash on any unsuspecting fool who actually attempts to buy something.”





	a dilettante sort of way

For all that it retained some prestige as one of the oldest continually operating bookshops in London, A.Z. Fell & Co had an abysmal reputation among the social circles Lord Peter Wimsey had inveigled himself into following the War - being made up primarily of self-proclaimed intellectuals, artistes, and independently wealthy collectors of incunabala, this was perhaps not entirely surprising. Familiarity breeds contempt, or so Peter had heard.

“Awful atmosphere,” Marjorie had offered over tea - a fine lapsang souchong as it happened - when Peter was last in Bloomsbury. “Felt as if a leak was about to erupt at any moment. I wouldn’t be surprised if the owner doesn’t keep a tiger caged up somewhere ready to unleash on any unsuspecting fool who actually attempts to  _ buy _ something.”

Peter nodded sympathetically. “And you say the man wouldn’t even let you peruse the stacks?”

“Well, it’s not to say that he wouldn’t  _ let _ me, I merely got the distinct impression I would be… intruding. On something mere mortals ought not to wot of.”

“A man’s bookshop is his castle,” said Peter. He took a bite of scone and chewed thoughtfully for a few moments. “And I suppose trying to pry a first edition from the shelf is almost like coming upon Alnwick in the form of trebuchet and boulder, if one considers it from another’s perspective.”

Marjorie gave him a look positively loaded with withering scorn, which was not an altogether uncommon activity among Peter’s friends, and changed the subject to a gallery exhibition on sculpture she’d recently visited and loathed. 

This fragment of conversation, fleeting as it was, for some reason convinced Peter that a visit of his own was absolutely imperative. His being a silly ass notwithstanding, he did rather like Soho, and it seemed respectable enough for the son of a duke to be seen visiting one of the longest running bookshops in London - surrounded by dens of iniquity or not.

And the dens of iniquity might be worth investigating as well, of course, but the opening hours didn’t really overlap.

So it was that Peter stepped out of a cab almost onto the doorstep of that selfsame shop just a few days later, cane clamped between elbow and ribs, ready to face whatever might be waiting inside. He’d consulted the rather excessively detailed list of opening times the day before in preparation, and was pleased to find that it  _ was _ open as advertised, although the door seemed reluctant to push its way over the interior mat.

“Good morning,” Peter called, effortlessly correct, before trudging in and divesting himself of his hat and umbrella at the coat rack. Dust drifted menacingly from the wooden prongs. No response came besides a sudden cold draught, which Peter supposed to be an element of dramatic convenience.

Nothing would deter him from a good first edition, however, and he made his way to a shelf of Victorian hardbacks with some enthusiasm. Gerry had never been terribly interested in books, but a good old fashioned spine tingler from Poe or Collins had never gone down too badly around the Christmas pine. The thought of the look on Helen’s face didn’t come into the decision at all, of course.

The shelves were organised seemingly at random, but a few minutes of focused perusal allowed Peter to determine that they were in fact ordered by exact date of publication. This seemed somewhat of an eccentric affectation when selling sensation novels that sold by the thousand, but he supposed it was much more practical for the stock that came at rather less than ten-a-penny.

A dusty but enticingly hard-backed copy of Armadale came free from the shelf with some reluctance, and fell open to a page marked with a pressed hyacinth. Peter smiled and took a moment to breathe in the always-comforting smell of decaying paper.

“ _ Good _ morning,” came a sharp, unhappy voice from behind him. Suppressing the startled jump that had been his natural reflex for some years, Peter turned and nodded towards the man he assumed to be the proprietor - a man of considerably light feet, he surmised from his silent approach.

Not tall, not short, somewhat plump, not blessed with flawless vision if one took the horn-rimmed spectacles as a necessity and not an affectation (and the perpetual squint lent credence there) - Peter thought the man wouldn’t be out of place at a Bloomsbury gathering, or at least that he would be equally out of place there as he would in any place. Which was of course just like fitting in anywhere, if one looked at it in another way. 

“What ho,” said Peter, pleasantly. He took his monocle from his top pocket and made a show of cleaning it with his handkerchief. “I assume I have the pleasure of addressin’ Mister Fell himself?”

“You do,” he replied, looking as if he rather wished he could scowl without breaking the social contract Peter had established at the coat rack. “Do be careful with that, by the way,” he continued. “The paper degrades over time.”

Never had Peter felt so amused by an implicit threat. He nodded solemnly, nonetheless. “Not to worry, old boy. I have some little experience in the antiquities field myself; I rather hoped I might be able to look at some of your older editions. Not for anything so petrifying as actually buying any of them, of course,” he added, noticing a tightening around the other man’s eyes. “But one does rather value certain volumes above one’s own dukedom.” He shut Armadale carefully and re-shelved it, brushing away the dust as he went. 

Fell raised his eyebrows. “And which dukedom might that be?”

“Denver,” said Peter, candidly. He offered his hand. “Name’s Wimsey. I was recommended the shop by a friend. Or, well, perhaps I might strictly say she expressly prohibited me from visiting, but she ought to know me well enough by now that that sort of thing is tantamount to an invitation.”

“Wimsey?” Mister Fell’s glare fell away, and he smiled shyly. It ought to have been incongruous. “That wouldn’t be the same Wimsey that found the Attenbury Emeralds?”

“The very same,” said Peter, feeling rather pleased. It had been some years since that case, now, years which had become not so much peppered with detective interruptions as punctuated by the lack of them, but it was still the one most well known by anyone Peter made the acquaintance of. Jewels seemed to have that effect on people. “One does seem to keep on poppin’ up in the wrong parts of the paper, but it’s a hobby of which I’m growing rather fond.”

“Oh, rather,” said Fell, a heavenly light in his eyes. Peter fought the urge to shut his eyes against the glare. “I always wanted to meet Holmes and Watson, you know, but I never had the pleasure.” He sighed mournfully, then brightened. “But it’s a pleasure to meet a detective in the same vein, nonetheless.”

They were silent for a few moments, Fell looking progressively more distant. His softly rounded cheeks had turned a dusty shade of pink, which made them seem almost cherubic. 

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt,” he murmured, gazing thoughtfully at a shelf of - Peter turned to check - multiple editions of Oscar Wilde. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment.”

Peter stood for a while in between shelves creaking under the weight of history. It put him in a rather reflective mood, such as is often provoked when in the presence of a good book, and gave him a few moments to contemplate, in no particular order 1) the lunch he thought he ought to treat Bunter to at Fortnum’s, 2) a recent and rather scathing article by a pre-eminent opponent of Mister Galton, 3) a long digression on the subject of Tchaikovsky’s 5th Symphony, and 4) the possibility of jam tomorrow, and yet never jam today. This level of elevated thought being somewhat trying on a sunny morning in late May, he abandoned it entirely on Fell’s return and redirected his efforts to the study of the shop itself.

It was somewhat larger than its storefront might suggest, with an open atrium and skylight which  _ ought _ to have made the place seem light and welcoming, but had evidently fallen against the immovable force that was Mister Fell. Books were stacked on shelves and on the floor and on spindly end tables which seemed bound to fail under the weight of the Collected Works of Austen, but were soldiering on regardless.

Mister Fell gave him another piercing look, spectacles resting precariously on the tip of his snub nose, and beckoned him to the stacks. “Do be careful,” he said. “We wouldn’t want an accident of some kind.”

Peter hummed in agreement and followed gingerly, stepping on floorboards that creaked in an almost perfunctory manner.

Mister Fell’s feet, encased as they were in sensible Victorian boots with a modest heel, caused no such creaking. 

The backroom seemed far more lived in than the shop, despite being rather tidier and more clearly lit. A small window high up in the far wall let in a decent light, and Peter spied a rather handsome lamp stood on a desk towards the back of the room. The rest of the room was filled with bookshelves, laden every one with ancient works Peter found himself almost in awe of. This was part of the reason he’d gone in for History, after all; one rather enjoyed the ephemeral sensation of handling what may have been handled in just the same way by dozens of people over the centuries. It struck Peter as a somewhat Wellsian fantasy, or at least as close as he would manage barring some truly remarkable scientific advancements.

Ruritania likely already had something of the sort, being a place riddled with such devices, but it was of course impossible to replicate the work outside of Cloud Cuckooland. 

“Is there anything in particular you were interested in?” asked Mister Fell, casting a critical eye over an array of books that seemed held together more by divine providence than binding threads.

“Well,” said Peter, once more extracting his eye-glass from the depths of his coat. “I’ve always had a fancy for the apocrypha, and the lives of saints,” he offered, as he screwed the monocle into place. “Got a de Worde  _ Golden Legend _ on the commencement of a case, in point of fact.”

Mister Fell nodded absently, now searching through the shelves with alacrity. “Ah,” he said, with some triumph, and extracted a scroll from a shelf which stood in an alcove by a sash window. He snapped his fingers, and - Peter shook his head slightly, feeling oddly off balance - cleared a space on a side table with what must have been a sweep of his arm.

“Here,” he said, beckoning Peter with his free hand. He tapped a well-manicured nail against the wood of the table, drawing Peter’s eye to faded Hebrew script. “A rather well preserved example of the Book of Enoch. Quite ridiculous. I keep it around for sentimental reasons, really. I’ve a fr-- an acq-- I know someone who finds it really quite hysterical.” He frowned, and sighed, but Peter thought it sounded much more fond than exasperated.

Peter, uncharacteristically, decided not to ask. 

“Anyway,” said Mister Fell, leading them to another shelf, and from that point on Peter was quite fully occupied for the rest of the morning.

It was with a heavy heart that Peter excused himself at midday, citing a lunch appointment. Mister Fell looked crestfallen.

Wishing to alter his mood at least moderately, Peter took Armadale back off of the shelf. “I don’t suppose you’d bend the rules so far as to allow me to part you with this? It’s for the duke.”

Mister Fell looked conflicted. He took the book without asking, looked carefully at the bookplate, and weighed the volume in his hand for some time. At length, he read through a few select sections, seemingly at random, and said, “Well, if you must.”

Peter duly parted with 2s 6d, an excessively reasonable sum for the edition, and waited patiently while Fell wrapped it in paper and tied it up with string. Handing the parcel across the counter seemed to pain him, but he merely dusted off his hands on his waistcoat and sighed once more.

“You’d best be getting on,” said Fell. “Wouldn’t want to keep Bunter waiting.”

After a polite farewell, Peter collected his hat and cane. He was out the door and halfway into a cab before he realised he hadn’t told Fell Bunter’s name.

**Author's Note:**

> writing wimseyfic aka frantically googling 'william shakespeare books quote' at 7pm on a friday night
> 
> anyway enjoy this extended headcanon extrapolation! aziraphale is very into detective fiction and definitely spent a lot of time contemplating being the victim of a crime just to have a plausible excuse for consulting sherlock holmes (yes, sherlock holmes is real in this crossover, please read the short story about peter consulting him about a missing kitten, it's the best)
> 
> crowley is very grumpy about aziraphale thinking peter is cool. me and sriya @surreptitiously had some great observations about this, to whit:
> 
> me: what would peter think of crowley  
> sriya: same hat. two spidermen pointing at each other  
> sriya: they both flirt with being cool without ever really getting there  
> me: crowley thinks he has the upper hand because sunglasses beat a monocle but then he discovers peter is a detective and is like god fucking damn it  
> sriya: "i could be a detective," he thinks mutinously "if i WANTED to"
> 
> anyway when harriet buys that donne letter for peter after their engagement it's aziraphale she buys it from.
> 
> title from the SOON TO BE PUBLISHED (!!!) wimsey short story 'the locked room'
> 
> follow me on tumblr and/or twitter @dotsayers! i am mostly doing the wimsey thing at this present moment but also, at intervals, good omens, supply teacher life posts, and masters level lesbianism


End file.
